I was out eating when I heard that my father had died. Drinking, actually. But the place where I was — standing on a patio in a warm rain at ten o'clock at night, surrounded by new friends, a stiff whiskey in my hand — served food, too, and nothing important that has happened to me since I was fifteen years old has happened in the calm and quiet that important moments probably deserve. Food and booze and restaurants and bars and kitchens have been at the center of everything for as long as I can remember — the hot, wet, steaming, vital core of my every experience. Eating. Drinking. Cooking. Standing on the dock with a cigarette in my hand and my boys... More >>>